A Simple Thing
by bcbdrums
Summary: "Something was amiss. I had searched everywhere, and yet I was still overlooking something important. I pinched my eyes shut against the pain of a headache, and poured myself a cup of the lukewarm tea…and the answer came to me." Gift for KaizokuShojo.


This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Simple Thing

© 2009 by the author (anonymous by request) in association with Daylor and Sheldon Publishing™

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

The author does not in any way profit from this work. All creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator.

For more information: submit a review or contact the author via private message.

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_**A/N: Happy Birthday Kai~~!**_

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A Simple Thing

The night was dark. I felt a rush of adrenaline as I began picking the lock of the door in front of me. I was on King Street, and the climax of a freakish case was at hand.

I crouched further into the shrouded doorway as a laughing, finely-dressed couple walked past, no doubt returning from an evening on the town. I glanced after them, wondering for a moment how God could make one man so conversely different from another.

I returned to my work, which was proving oddly challenging on this moonless night. Not that sight is all that helpful when picking locks.

I selected a different lock-pick, and continued to work on the door of the small house. My lack of success was becoming frustrating, and every sound, from the single cricket I could hear at the corner of the house, to the quiet rustling of the leaves in the wind was making me nervous.

Everything depended upon this.

I closed my eyes, and focused on the sound of metal scraping against metal, as I slowly and deliberately maneuvered the rod within the keyhole. I was finally rewarded for my efforts, and I glanced once more out into the eerie night as I carefully pushed open the door in front of me. I raised my arm slightly, signaling to Watson in his hiding place that all was well. He responded with the same gesture, almost invisible in the inky blackness, and I turned and crept into the silence of the building.

When a house is empty is when most would claim it is loudest. The lack of human presence, save the person who has the unfortunate luck of being inside alone, seems to give a ghostly life to the timbers, and the atmosphere seems heavier.

But not in this case.

The last sound I heard was the soft click of the door settling into place as I closed it behind me. Now, there was nothing but black, empty silence. Not even my own breathing, for I had stilled it to listen for any sound of activity. But it was as if I had stepped into a void.

That was fine for my purpose, however, and I took slow, deliberate steps forward, trying to recall the layout of the building.

Six steps forward, and my toe bumped into the bottom of the first stair with a dull thud. The sound was barely audible, I knew, but to my heightened sense it sounded like a heavy stone had been dropped.

I froze and held my breath anxiously, not knowing what to expect. Had a specter flown at me then I might not have been surprised. But of course, there was only silence, so I took a cautious step onto the staircase.

I ascended slowly, counting steps until I reached the eighth one, which I carefully skipped; it had creaked noisily upon my first inspection of the building, and I did not want to risk waking the occupants. The landing was at the fifteenth step, and I moved one hand along the railing until it ended, and kept my arm out in front of me to be sure of my position. A turn to the left, a few more slow steps, and my hand touched a wall.

My eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and I could barely see the outline of the door that was my objective. I moved as slowly and silently as possible, barely allowing myself to breathe as I turned the doorknob of the small flat.

I could hear the pounding of my heart almost as much as I could feel it inside my chest, and I clenched my revolver in my pocket. This was it.

I entered slowly and, after making sure I was alone, my eyes darted around the dark room, quickly taking in the meager furnishings, the fireplace, the mess of papers upon the desk, and the steaming teapot upon the table. But my focus was on the door across the room. I moved toward it swiftly, drawing my revolver as I went. I held it ready before me, and paused to light a match before pulling the door open.

The hour was sometime past two in the morning. I had chosen that time for the venture, because it afforded fewer possibilities for the location of my quarry. At that hour, he would most likely be asleep in his bed, or not home at all, based on the habits which I had observed of him over the past week. I was rather surprised that it was the latter, but the slight change in plans was not a great one. It only meant I would get less sleep that evening.

I glanced around the room, making certain I was the only presence there, and went back to the sitting room. I set my gun upon the table and blew out the match, my soft-soled shoes making no sound on the thick rug. I took off my coat, and pressed it against the bottom of the door, wanting no light to escape the room at all.

Before I lit my dark lantern, I took a cautious glance out the window. I grimaced seeing Watson out of his hiding place and conversing with a policeman in plain sight on the pavement. I had warned him not to be too conspicuous as he was skulking in the shadows, and I hoped that this small blunder wouldn't betray my position or get him into trouble.

I closed the window shade, and lit my lantern and went to the desk. It was not really enough light for me to search efficiently, but there was some possibility of my being discovered. The landlord had not taken kindly to my enquiries the previous day and the last thing I needed was an accusation of burglary against me.

I was not sure where I would find the evidence I needed to convict the man, but the mess of papers he had on his desk were the most likely place. The man was definitely intelligent, but exceedingly careless. That is how I came to discover him and the shadow of misfortune he had cast upon the citizens of London.

He was a con man, wooing wealthy women and convincing them to invest in his "charity," which was a foundation for helping orphans in eastern Africa. His "clients" would agree to donate a substantial (but not suspicious) amount of money each month, which would simply be transferred from their bank accounts to his.

The case had been rather a bore to work out. One of his victims had come to me, uncertain about the situation, and a simple look at his bank records revealed the entire scheme. How the authorities had failed to see it, I shall never know. He was only using one account, and had made no attempt to hide his actions.

The game should have been over then, but somehow he discovered that I was aware of him, and he took all of his money and vanished. I thought he had left England, fearing for his freedom, and two months of fruitless searching by the authorities seemed to confirm this supposition.

But three weeks ago a series of events began which have led to my discovering him again.

These are the facts: three weeks ago, the Lady Emily Harcourt was married to a Mr. Elias Scott. Seventeen days ago, the Lady Emily Harcourt drowned in a boating accident while on her honeymoon in Aberdeen. Four days after the "accident," Mr. Scott disappeared, and seemed to have taken with him his late wife's fortune in securities, as well as all the valuables he could get his hands on.

The scandal was in every newspaper in England, and I was asked to investigate. When the poor woman's parents informed me that their daughter had fallen in love with Scott due to his compassion for the suffering children in Africa, I knew there could be no coincidence.

Then eight days ago, a sapphire necklace was pawned in London which the Harcourt family identified as their property. I had my lead.

Finding the man was simple, as was preparing for tonight's escapade. But proving him guilty of murder was another matter. No one had been present but him when the lady died, so only a confession could get him hung. But at the moment, my concern was more with finding evidence to convict him of all of his past and present crimes.

My search of the desk had revealed one small piece of evidence—a photograph of an African boy. Unfortunately, a single photograph would not make a substantial case for the prosecution. I needed receipts, bank records, and the stolen securities and property to seal his fate.

I moved back to the bedroom, which was even more disarranged than the sitting room, and continued my search. But several minutes later I was still unsuccessful. I reluctantly set the gas to a dim burn, hoping the light would aid my search, and begun to quietly tear the room apart.

I looked for secret compartments within every piece of furniture, but found none. I checked every seam of every cushion, blanket, and pillow to see if he had possibly sewn something inside. But none showed signs of having been undone within at least a decade. I looked behind the pictures on the walls, I checked the wallpaper, and looked in every possible nook and cranny of the room, but my efforts yielded nothing.

I frustratedly moved back to the sitting room and went through the same procedure of slowly and methodically turning the place into a veritable pigsty. I hoped Watson was not becoming worried about me, for nearly an hour had passed since I had entered the building.

My search of the sitting room returned no results whatsoever. I pondered turning up the gas to see if it would help, but the only thing I had not done was tear up the floorboards. And I could tell from the positions of the rug and furniture (and the thick layers of dust) that he had not hidden anything there.

I looked out the window again, distractedly. The constable was gone, and I could not see Watson. Hopefully he was back in his hiding place and had not been carted off to jail. I sighed and sat down at the man's small table, resting my head on my hands. I had to be missing something. I watched the slow swirls of steam hanging onto the spout of the teapot as I went over everything in my mind.

There was not a single thing I had not searched within the flat. Therefore, the evidence was not there. The man _could_ have hidden everything somewhere else, but that was not the way he had been doing things. He was simply too reckless and clumsy to have made that level of effort. He was smart enough to know when to quit, but his cockiness did not allow for any precautionary measures.

I had been following the man's every move for nearly a week, and this was his sole place of residence. The evidence was not hidden elsewhere. It was possible that he had pawned all of the valuables and destroyed the bank records and receipts, but he could not have acquired money from the securities yet. And, that was simply not his style; a man does not deviate from the pattern he was made in.

There was only one solution as I could see it. The only other possible place the evidence could be was with Scott himself. But…he did _not_ have that much foresight. He would only take them with him if he was planning to leave the place permanently. But his personal belongings were still here, so that could not be the answer.

I rubbed my forehead wearily as I ran everything through my mind again. The evidence was not here. It was not somewhere else. It had to be with him, but he was not leaving. The only other logical reason he would have taken everything with him is if…he knew I was coming.

I stiffened suddenly, fearing an attack. But none came, and the house was as silent as ever.

I extinguished the flame in my dark lantern and wracked my brain for a solution. He could have simply skipped town again and left his things here, if he only just discovered my involvement in the business. But that did not coincide with the casual way he had been disposing of the Harcourts' possessions. In fact, he was likely selling some of them now; my informants told me that was how he had been spending the wee hours.

I was beginning to get nervous. Something was amiss. I was still overlooking something important.

I pinched my eyes shut against the pain of the headache that had begun a short time ago, and poured myself a cup of the lukewarm tea…

…the tea! How could I have overlooked such a simple thing…?!

I was on my feet in an instant, and snatched my gun from the table…but I was too late.

"Do not move, Mr. Holmes, if you value your life," a cold voice sounded along with the sound of the door opening slowly behind me.

He kicked my coat away from the door where I had laid it and into a corner, and I heard his even tread upon the floorboards as he approached me. He firmly pressed the barrel of a gun into my back and I swallowed the lump of fear that was forming in my throat as he took my own gun from me.

"Walk over to the window and turn around. Slowly now…" he intoned thickly, and I complied, not knowing what to expect. I had an urge to look out the window, as a sudden fear for Watson's safety came to my mind. He was supposed to have signaled me if anyone entered the building.

"Ah! Don't touch the window, Mr. Holmes. Now look at me."

"Good evening, Mr. Scott," I finally said. I had to find a way to buy time until I could escape.

"It is quite a good evening, yes," he replied, "I never expected the great Sherlock Holmes to fall for my trap."

"You have been here the entire time," I stated, the image of that steaming teapot pervading my mind.

"Indeed. I am rather surprised you did not search the house for me before trashing my rooms. It has been quite entertaining."

"You've been watching me?" I said, my eyes darting around the room frantically.

"No, but listening. And a difficult job that was too. You're more quiet than a mouse, even when taking apart my furniture."

"Why did you do it Scott? Why did you kill Miss Harcourt? You would have had her money through the marriage," I asked, desperately seeking distraction. I could see in his eyes that he meant to use his gun, and that I was barely holding his attention from doing so.

"I suppose there's no harm in telling you. I killed her because I did not want to be tied down. The women have been a mere trifle; it's the money I'm really after." The plain way in which he said the words made my blood turn to ice. I had underestimated this man. He was an intelligent, cold-hearted murderer and I was most likely about to die at his hand.

"You cannot get away with it, you know. The police know who you are, and will surely find my body and track you down."

"That is unlikely," he smirked, "I shall simply disappear as I did before. England is vast, and the brain of the policeman is small."

"We are in agreement on that point," I said grimly. I could see no way out of the situation. Scott was deadly focused on me with that gun, and I was ten feet away with my back to the wall. "How can you fire that weapon in here, with the landlord sleeping downstairs?" I asked, still desperately looking for a way to stall.

Scott smirked. "I took care of him."

I felt a twinge of pain in my chest, wondering how many innocents had suffered at this madman's hand. "Where are the bank records? And the securities?" I asked hopelessly, as I saw him leveling the gun.

He chuckled. "Quite a simple thing really. I have a partner."

"What? Who--?"

"Enough talk!" he growled, "And now, goodbye," he said, and pointed the gun at my head.

At that moment, the eighth stair squeaked. Scott turned toward the sound, and I dove for his knees and felt a pain in my back as if someone had stabbed me with a hot poker. But I had taken the man down, and in the dim light I lunged for the gun in his hand and held onto it for all I was worth.

His eyes seemed to burn holes into mine as I struggled to keep the gun pointed anywhere but at me, but the ache in my back was spreading and I doubted I would have control of my arms much longer. He smiled wickedly as he saw me weakening and hissed a curse into my face.

Just then, the reason for the squeaky stair was revealed in a familiar voice.

"Drop the gun, Scott!" Watson commanded, and the villain turned to see my friend's army revolver pointed at his head. He slowly released his hold on the gun, and I threw it away and collapsed from pain.

"What are you doing here!?" Scott fairly screamed, as if Watson were the last person on earth he expected to see. And I knew why, when looking up from where I lay I saw a small trail of blood on my friend's jacket, which became a soggy red mass at his shoulder. Worse yet, the blood was coming from a wound on his head which I could not see. He was standing with one hand on the wall for support, the other steady and training the gun at our enemy.

Watson didn't answer him, but glanced at me, his eyes pools of worry. I was lying on my side, and through the pain I could feel something wet on my back, near the bottom of my left shoulder blade. I realized I had been shot.

My gaze rested on Watson's eyes, and we spoke at the same time.

"Are you all right Holmes?" he asked.

"What did he do to you?"

He didn't answer, but waited for me to reply.

"He shot me…keep your eyes on him, Watson!" I cried as he started toward me.

"But you need help, Holmes—!"

"He'll murder us in an instant. Keep your eyes on him!"

Watson obeyed my command without another word, and I painfully rose to my feet. I picked up my own gun, and I pocketed his and slowly moved to stand beside Watson.

"A grand thing it is indeed, to have a partner," I smiled at Scott. He merely sneered in response.

I had to support myself on the wall as he was doing, and I peered at his head as he kept glancing at me.

"Watch him…" I warned, and good was my warning. Scott had gotten to his knees in those few moments, but froze as Watson turned his full attention and his gun back to him.

"When did he do this?" I asked, seeing a two inch gash behind Watson's temple.

"What?" Watson asked, keeping his eyes on our enemy.

"Your head? When did he do this?" I glared at Scott, "I thought you were in the house?"

"He didn't," Watson answered.

"What?"

"That's right, Mr. Holmes," Scott said, looking at something behind us. I gasped, and without even turning shoved Watson aside and fell with him due to my current weakness. I felt the wind as a bullet moved past where we had been standing, and turning, I fired at the man standing in the doorway.

I couldn't help a cry of surprise as I saw that it was a police constable falling with my bullet in him; the same one I had seen talking to Watson.

"Neil!" Scott cried, and rushed toward the fallen man. "You killed my brother!" he screamed. He grabbed the fallen man's gun and lunged at me.

I don't know if it was Watson's bullet that killed him or mine.

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"…and then I woke up in the alley where I had been keeping watch, and immediately made for the house," Watson finished his explanation of what had transpired between him and the constable who had been aiding Elias Scott from the beginning. He had hit Watson over the head to get him out of the way, so his brother could do away with me without interference, and had then continued along his beat. He rushed back when he heard the shot that had wounded me.

We were at Scotland Yard, receiving treatment for our wounds. Watson had a concussion and a nasty headache, but no permanent damage had been done. He would simply need rest to recover from the blood loss. A police surgeon removed the bullet from my back, which had lodged between two ribs near my spine. Thankfully, I also would need only rest to make a full recovery.

All the evidence needed to convict Elias Scott had been found in the home of his brother, Constable Neil Scott. I should have realized he had had help from the very beginning. That is how he knew to leave town those months ago, and how he was aware that I had planned to burgle his home that evening.

I felt utterly stupid for not seeing the solution to the problem, especially since it was simply one of my own rules for the game: always have backup. Watson assured me, however, that the lesson was one I would not forget, and true, the result to the case was satisfactory.

And, by the grace of Providence, the landlord of Elias Scott did not meet the fate of his boarder. Scott had attempted to smother him in his sleep, but the man had a strong constitution and only blacked out for a time. He will have to spend some time in the hospital, but doctors are confident he will make a full recovery.

"Holmes?" Watson drew me out of my thoughts.

"Yes?"

"What are you brooding about?"

"I am not brooding," I replied simply. Somehow, he saw emotion in everything even where none was present.

"Then…what are you thinking?"

I thought for a moment of how to explain my thoughts. "I was thinking…how strange it is that one man, for seemingly no reason, is evil, and another man is good. Certainly, there is potential for either in any man, but…I was just wondering why. If that makes sense…"

Watson pondered that for a moment as I gingerly put on my coat, which was now covered in dust from Scott's floor.

"It's a simple thing, I suppose," Watson said finally, as we left the station and looked for a cab to drive us to Baker Street.

"And what is that?"

"Love."

I was baffled, and skeptical. "Love?"

"Yes. What a man loves, is what he will pursue in life. And if his love is evil, well…" he trailed off.

"That does not sound simple."

"Isn't it? Your passion is for your art, and when working you are the most fulfilled man in London. When you are not, you despair of life," he said, as we climbed into a cab. I ordered it to Baker Street as I thought about this.

"What about the Scotts then?" I asked, not liking the attention on myself, especially in association with emotion.

"Well…they loved money. And it destroyed them."

"Somehow…that just does not make sense, Watson."

"Well…think about it. It will."

I looked across curiously at my friend as he settled carefully into the seat of the cab. My friend Watson…a man of letters, a healer, and a man of pure heart.

I wasn't sure I understood what Watson had been explaining, especially as such feelings he was describing are foreign to my nature. But somehow, I knew he was right.

Love.

A simple thing indeed.

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_Author's notes: Okay, so this was...as always, written on the fly, with very little editing. And it's very uncharacteristic of my usual writing, so I'm not sure if it's any good or not... Since I've not written anything substantial in a long time, that makes me suspicious of its quality too, so...you tell me._

_I kept the theme of "a simple thing" going in a few places... Best I could do, with my brain being 99% focused on schoolwork and 1% focused on Sherlock Holmes. Ah well..._


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